


And Build Me A Pavilion

by voxDei



Series: The Care and Keeping of Your Hellbender [1]
Category: Hellsing, Temeraire - Fandom
Genre: Dragon AU, Mild Gore, Oneshot, Temeraire au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 08:13:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8438092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxDei/pseuds/voxDei
Summary: Local twelve year old finds ancient dragon in cave, becomes youngest certified captain in England, nearly forces butler to retire early.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was low effort and could probably use some expansion but I want it to be a halloween thing dammit so that's what it's gonna be.

Her uncle is a lying, cheating, greedy man, and she should never have agreed to come here.

“What? No, none of that now,” he’d said, with a smile that really didn’t cover the oiliness under it. “There is a longwing egg recently laid in the north breeding grounds, it is important to know if it is a good fit.” Ordinarily she’d have been more suspicious, more wary of such a sudden change in attitude, but she was lulled by the promise of a chance at an egg, a _longwing_ egg at that, and by Walter’s assured presence on the journey, that she capitulated. 

But she was not so foolish as to be surprised when her uncle’s men managed to separate her from her butler, and she was certainly not so foolish as to come unarmed. She’d dodged through a group of fidgety courier-weights, using their fluttering and exclamations of “I say!” and “careful now!” as cover to lose her pursuers, and when the terrain tipped sharply upwards and became a small mountain, she’d kept climbing, on the assumption that it’s better to at least have the higher ground. None of her uncle’s men are aviators, at least not ones currently attached to a dragon, and she reasons that it will be some time before they can convince one of the residents to take them up to chase her, if they can at all. All she needs is to find a place to rest and wait them out.

(Until what? her treacherous brain asks, and she silences it with threats of throwing herself from the mountain in protest. That shuts it up.)

She climbs, pearl-handled pistol heavy in her pocket, until the wind starts trying in earnest to rip her from the stone, and she’s forced to seek real shelter. 

There, a shadow in the rock face. A very large shadow, she realizes as she draws nearer; my, you could fit a house through there. Provided it was on the small side, but still, houses only get so small. 

The sunlight is irritatingly bright out of the trees, and she’s grateful to step into the shade, even if it does leave her functionally blind for several minutes. Ever prudent, she waits until her vision has adjusted to venture further inside.

It appears to be empty. She sighs with internal relief; it would be tricky explaining her presence had this cave been claimed. She knows half feral dragons, like many consigned to an idle life here, can be fiercely territorial. She remembers the jealous looks her father’s compatriots’ beasts would give each other’s crews. 

She needs to conceal herself from the entryway, and so ventures further in, gingerly keeping her footing on damp stones. The air is chilled and stale, and she can’t see an end to the cave. 

How far back into the mountain does this go?

Faint shouts, half-eaten by wind, reach her ears, and her hands clench into fists as she looks over her shoulder. Nowhere close yet, not for a while, but she’ll have to face them eventually.

She keeps walking, wishing she had a lantern or torch, something to light her way. The cavern could drop off into a sheer cliff two steps ahead and she wouldn’t even know it until gravity took over. The thought makes her swallow, but she keeps going regardless. She’s got no choice. 

A sound from up ahead makes her pause; a soft _shhh shhh_ scraping, like fabric over stone. Is someone else in here? Dragging… something? She shoves her hand into her coat pocket, grasping the handle of her pistol tightly. 

Then the darkness in front of her _heaves_ , buckling and sliding a dozen new shades of black against each other around the shape of _something_ , something _massive_ , and her heart leaps into her throat because _that is a dragon_. A huge, surely heavyweight dragon, black as the surrounding darkness, coiled and knotted against the far wall.

 _Oh uncle_ , she curses, _you’ve chased me to my death._

The dragon writhes slowly, lifting its head from immeasurable coils of inky scales and pinning her with sunset-colored eyes. Massacre-colored eyes.

The beast inhales, a long, slow breath, and she’s struck with a vision of immolation, fire surely to come. But all that hisses out is a word, low and vibrating in the air, in a voice dry with disuse: _“Abraham.”_

Her chin twitches up on reflex, shoulders straightening. “That was my father’s name.”

The darkness splits open, revealing rows of shining white teeth like sabers as the best smiles. _“And what do I call you?”_

Hopefully not dinner.

She clamps down on herself, meeting the beast’s hellish gaze. “I am Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing.”

“And you’ll never be anything more than that!”

She whirls, grabbing for her small pistol; Richard! He looks out of breath, two more of his minions trailing behind, but the set of his jaw is determined and malevolent. “You! Spiteful little wretch! You just had to make this difficult for me didn’t you?”

Anger bursts out of her mouth in the shape of words. “And what exactly was your plan, uncle, shoot me and pretend a feral dragon knows how to operate a gun? And you think you can lead our family?”

Her uncle only snarls, ugly mustache bristling, and raises the revolver in his hand. “It is mine by right, you brat!”

The gun fires, deafening in the cave, but there’s suddenly a wall before her, a black scaled wall with curved talons. She doesn’t even hear the bullet impact, small and faint it must be, through the deep, malevolent growl that shakes the stale air.

_“Your blood reeks”_

Apparently Richard had somehow failed to notice the hulking heavyweight dragon coiled behind his quarry; he stumbles back, mouth agape. One of his lackeys exclaims, “L-lord Richard! What—!”

“I don’t know! This cave was supposed to be empty, my brother never said—!”

The dragon hisses, low and rattling, and arches its neck out towards the three men, a jagged crown of horns visible against the light from the cave mouth. Integra can see its long, pointed tongue between curved carnivorous teeth.

_“Your presence offends me. You are unfit to be this family’s head. Unfit to be my captain.”_

It happens very quickly; the gargantuan head lunges forward and catches the man to the right of Richard between jaws like the guillotines of France, and the unfortunate does not stop screaming until the third grisly crunch. Richard’s other minion is fleeing, sprinting for the daylight outside, and the dragon’s tail lashes for it, narrow tip whipping around the man’s middle and yanking him back with a sick snap. The dragon hisses raw pleasure, dragging the screaming man towards the inevitable jaws of the beast.

Integra can’t help but watch.

Her treacherous uncle fires his pistol at the beast, pitiful popgun that it is, and the great muzzle swings in his direction, blood staining its shadowed lips.

_Mistake._

The taloned hand not shielding Integra whips out, knocking the man down like so much vermin and caging him in claws. That red tongue reappears, flicking out from between teeth in anticipation.

Integra puts a hand on the paw before her.

Instantly the beast’s demeanor changes, its head curling back inwards and a huge, burning eye regarding her from above.

“Are you injured, Sir Hellsing?”

Richard, it seems, cannot stop himself from making foolish decisions. From his place under the dragon’s foot he fumbles his weapon, pointing it at the little of Integra visible above the edge of her scaly shield.

“Hellsing is mine! It’s mine, you hear me!”

Smoothly, Integra retrieves her pistol and returns the gesture. The little pearl-handled gun is chilled in her hand, and her aim does not waver. To the dragon, she asks, “Do you have a name?”

Its voice is low, even. “Your family called me Alucard.” 

The shot’s echo seems muffled, and the beast’s rictus grin widens even more.

The great paw recedes, no need to shield her now, and the great muzzle replaces it, sniffing her over. Her dragon is… purring. He’s purring. She blinks in bewilderment, running her hands over a surprisingly soft nose bigger than her entire torso, and she feels the rumbles of that purr, vibrating air and flesh alike. Alucard’s eyes are half-closed in pleasure, his tail curled around them almost twice.

“My Integra,” he rumbles, “my captain, I would die for you, I would _kill_ for you, only say the word.”

She almost laughs, this is melodrama out of one of her old paperbacks. “We have only just met.”

“As if that matters! You are glorious, worthy of me as no one else is.” His gaze is intense, burning, like staring into the sun. “You will use me well.”

“You have already killed for me.” Not that it was a great loss. Still, she sighs. “So you are mine then, is that it?”

Alucard noses her, head nearly on the ground. _“Yesss.”_

She chews the inside of her cheek, suddenly wanting to be gone from here very badly. “Then take me home.”

The great hand closes around her again before she processes the implications of that request. She swallows a yelp and holds onto one python-thick digit, the dragon rising to his full, considerable height. The floor drops away under her, but Alucard angles his paw so she’s got something to stand on, a motion that seems so practiced as to be almost unconscious. He hobbles forward in the same manner, comfortable on only three legs, and makes a dragonish look of disgust at the afternoon sunlight. The wrinkled nose and lips are comical enough to almost make Integra laugh, but then he opens his wings and her vision is filled with deep, inky blackness, somehow blotting out the light completely. They’re like jagged slices of night against the day, and she’s so distracted she almost doesn’t notice when powerful muscles bunch and launch them both into the air.

She clings to the giant hand, wind whipping her hair around in a feral tangle, and the thunder of those great wings drowns out thought. She’d been aloft before, of course, what kind of aviator child would she be if she hadn’t been practically suckled on the wing, but never on a beast of this size, and _without a harness_. Walter would have palpitations.

 _That’s not the only thing he’ll have palpitations about_ , she thinks grimly. There are going to have to be consequences. Mostly for the rest of her uncle’s conspirators. 

With a dragon like this under her, they’ll _have_ to make her a knight.


End file.
